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| A tree whose hungry mouth is prest | |
| Against the sweet earth's flowing breast; | |
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| A tree that looks at God all day, | |
| And lifts her leafy arms to pray; | |
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| A tree that may in summer wear | |
| A nest of robins in her hair; | |
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| Upon whose bosom snow has lain; | |
| Who intimately lives with rain. | |
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| Poems are made by fools like me, | |
But only God can make a tree.
Joyce Kilmer | |
